THE VOYAGE HOME

Korero (AEWS), Volume 3, Issue 13, 30 July 1945, Page 19

THE VOYAGE HOME

From “ Letter to a Soldier” by

(Part 2.)

This afternoon we are having a concert on the boat deck. People are sitting everywhere, on the deck, on rafts, in odd chairs, on the hatchway, straining for a view round ventilators and stanchions and bollards and booms and winches, straining to hear performers through a hopelessly inefficient loudspeaker system.

The stage is set near the main mast right at the aft end of the boat deck, so that the largest part of the audience, troops clinging to every point in the aft well-deck area, may see and hear.

It is a hot afternoon with a breeze strong enough to roughen the surface of the sea, so that the sun is reflected in countless sparkling points of light. The sky is still blue, edged with horizon-long, evenly banked clouds dappled white and grey.

The convoy moves on placidly.

Master of Ceremonies, opening the concert, is about to win the favour of all other ranks. “ A Yank, a Tommy, and a Kiwi meet in a bar, and the talk, as usual, gets around to shop,” he is saying. "As usual, too, the Yank is the first to set the ball rolling, bragging : ‘We have tough officers. The other day one of pur officers went out on patrol and had his brains and his guts shot out. But the M.O. put a bandage around his head and another around his stomach and he was on parade the next morning ‘ That’s

nothing ’, said the Tommy. ‘ Fairly recently one of our officers had his brains and guts shot out, but they put zipfasteners on him and he was on parade next morning ’. ‘ Well ’, said the NewZealander, ‘we have officers with no brains and no guts and they’re on parade every morning.’ ”

Master of Ceremonies is cheered by the other ranks, and introduces a four-piece, drumless orchestra. Vocalists follow, but “ An Old Fashioned House,” “ The Road To Mandalay,” and other songs are flattened in the vast amphitheatre of sky and sea ; notes and words are lost in immensity. lam reminded of a shepherd singing in the hills a mile away on a clear summer evening “ The Hills Of Home,” as a nursing sister is singing now.

The torrid sun creeps under the canvas awning as the cyclostyled community song sheets are handed out. Not a chord is heard from the Trojan piano dragged from the officers lounge, but the songs are old and familiar as comrades of desert days and the green hills and olive trees of Italy. All seem to know the words of “ Just a Boosey Private ”, and the tune “ Lili Marlene,” of course, is as familiar as any tune is likely to be. “ Won’t You Take Us Home,” again plagiarizing the German soldier’s torch song, means nothing now, but it is not so long since there were wishes aplenty in the vigour of the words.

Aldis lamps are busy between Senior Officer Escort and this, the convoy commodore’s ship, and between this and the other vessels. The siren gives two nerve-jumping whoops and the formation makes a 15 degrees turn. The wind has increased, the clouds on the horizon ahead have turned blacker. The singing goes on. “ Haere Ra,” favourite of messes, bivvy-tented areas, and truck movements, has significance now. “ . . . Soon you’ll be sailing far across the sea . . . You’ll find me waiting there.” And a verse of the song of the islands is not nostalgic as it used to be, but instead is full oi promise :—

O’er the ocean your Island home is calling, Happy country where roses bloom in splendour. Oh, if I could but journey there beside you, Then for ever my heart would sing in rapture. Sentimental ? Yes. But the ship’s bow is pointed southeast and to-day we seem to be so very, very much nearer home.

Sunday

A cool southerly wind whips rainbow spray from a white-splashed, Reckitt’s blue sea. It is a day for slacks, singlets, and sweaters, and comes abruptly on four days of rough weather, four stifling days in the confinement of closed ports. It is Sunday. A pleasant day. Out on the boat deck one almost catches the atmosphere of a lazy peacetime cruise. A church service is in progress in the officers lounge. “ Onward, Christian soldiers, Onward as to war . . . ” There is a good attendance and the familiar hymn comes strongly through the open window. It occurs to me that “ Onward, Christian soldiers, Onward as from war,” would be more appropriate to this particular service until I read a paragraph in the day’s radio news bulletin. “ After a chase lasting one week, units of the Royal Navy and the Royal Indian Navy have sunk a Japanese submarine in the Indian Ocean. The submarine was sunk by H.M.S. Godavari."

We have, been in the Indian Ocean for two weeks. We are still in it. How we take our safety for granted ! What bliss is our ignorance !

The padre is speaking. ”... and Christ told his disciples to go throughout the world. So should we go throughout our world with the Gospel . . . ”

Farewell to Escort

The ponderous voice of the ship’s master comes heavily over the loudspeakers. ”At approximately seventeenthirty hours . . . that is to say, at half-past five • . . . the Senior Officer Escort will close this ship. The escort is leaving us on its long return voyage and I propose, as commodore of this convoy, to say a few words of thanks to .Senior Officer Escort for having brought us safely thus far. If troops are so inclined they may express their thanks to the escort by giving three cheers. That is all.”

We have steamed steadily southward and night comes more quickly. It is darkening at 5.30. An extremely cool breeze brings a threat of rain from mounting leaden clouds. But officers, nursing sisters, W.A.A.Cs, and men have climbed on to hatchways and rigging and are lining the rails. It will be an event to see that tiny escort “ close this ship,” to see it as something nearer, more potent, than a distant grey shape out ahead and on the flank of the convoy.

All eyes are on the Senior Officer Escort’s ship as, at precisely 5.30, it turns slowly in the broken sea, skirts the starboard troopship, and slowly turns toward our vessel. The convoy has reduced

speed until we appear to have bare steerage way. The tiny frigate pushes her nose into the cold grey seas, then climbs them swiftly. We can see her crew lining the rails, two or three figures on the miniature bridge representing officers and signalmen. How small this escort is ! Deadly depth charges are poised along its stern rails ; small calibre, almost innocuous guns are trained ahead, shrouded in canvas coats. Gradually the margin between the vessels closes. The diminutive warship has the effect of transforming this ship into a leviathan by comparison. We lumber, while the frigate (fondly and so confidently imagined by most to be a destroyer) skirts and skates, showing her green forefoot and then the red-ochred stern plates. The convoy commodore is standing within view on the bridge. He has a microphone to his lips, and through this and the loud-hailer says, “ Good evening to you.” Does the Senior Officer Escort hear ? Our captain says again, “ Good evening to you.” And then a young clear English voice, almost straight from the 8.8. C., says, “ Good evening, sir.” The “ sir ” is a courtesy. Because of his position the Senior Officer Escort, in this case, I think, judging by the size of his flagship, a Lieutenant R.N., or perhaps a Lieutenant-Commander R.N.V.R., is in command of the convoy, completely responsible for it. But he is leaving us now that we are through the danger area. “As captain of this ship and commodore of the convoy,” says the master, “ I want to say ‘ Thank you ’ for bringing us safely under your wing so far. On behalf of the convoy, too, I wish you bon voyage on your long trip back across these waters.”

“ Thank you, sir,” says the young voice from the bridge of the escort. “ I would like to wish you a safe landfall and a welcome at your destination that you deserve.”

This last is meant for the troops, who, quick to recognize it, break into cheers. For a minute or two the vessels continue to ride together. Then the midget warship falls slowly away, turns her bow from us, and, followed by her sister ship from the port flank, heads into the dark horizon astern.

The Last Lap

This ship has a fault, responsibility for which lies with its architects. It may steam at a steady so-many knots, completely satisfying its captain and chief engineer and the naval authorities who plot its whereabouts from day to day, but it cannot steam fast enough. It is equipped with everything but the engines to drive it at 500 knots. Deplorable lack of initiative on the part of its designers !

We are becoming impatient, and impatience over the last day or two has been translated into greater mileage of paced deck than the total logged on the voyage so far. Perhaps the grey, bleak weather has something to do with it ? Definitely did that two and a half days’ stay at Melbourne contribute towards it. A week-end in Victoria’s capital, delightful as a relief from four tedious weeks at sea, formed too much of a brake on our steady progress homewards. To leave the port, even though we were able the better to stand on shore-stretched legs, was too much like starting the voyage afresh, and Aotearoa, though much nearer geographically, had receded a little in the longnurtured vision of imagination.

But there was a sheer physical pleasure in being able to walk the wide streets and a mental exhileration in hearing English spoken instead of the cosmopolitan babble to which we had been accustomed for so long. It may read

as an exaggerated acknowledgment of fortune, but the mere fact of listening to the barber briefly snipping away at Australasian racing history and the days’ prospects at Mentone was a degree of joy.

But the really simple act with the proportions of a win in the Irish Sweepstake was to hold and read a newspaper. The Anglo-Egyptian news sheets familiar in Middle East days and the Service journals forming our daily news medium in Italy were not newspapers : even the least interested of readers and the harshest of critics will concede that. To read a Melbourne newspaper was akin to having sight restored after years of blindness. One might almost allow oneself the ponderous observation that happiness lies in the little things. Let us dwell for a heavenly moment on the sight, texture, and taste of a piece of 3 in. thick sponge cake !

Two grey days of a calm but threatening Tasman. Thirty-one days out from Suez. The work of the ship goes on and those many spare hours are filled in the same fashions, but the more methodical among us are sorting gear and making a preliminary pack. Opportunities, when space is crowded and likely to lead to last-minute chaos, are too good to be missed, they say. Fresh water is turned on all day, hot fresh water, and respite from fatigues and other duties means a chance to do a last limited laundry.

To-day has seen parades, parades, parades ; for pay, for rail warrants, for ration coupons —and for telegram forms !

“ Two days to New Zealand. We berth in Wellington on Saturday morning,” one says, and one’s pulse quickens with a nearer, deeper thrill. But to hold a telegraph form, pencil in hand, lifts the heart in bounds of sheer exciting realization. This is true 1 We are going home ! We are almost there ! This is no long-drawn dream. This telegram will be delivered in a matter of hours. Not long months, nor weary weeks, nor dragging days, but in hours ! One is almost paralysed with enthralling prospect. What can one say in such a telegram ? Just that. “ Only hours now.”

This is the only occasion in a lifetime that one may wake from a dream and find it true. This fact of return, so very near accomplishment now, is emerging sharply from the haze of unreality, as an Italian stone-walled mountain village emerges clear-etched against its background of blue and brown and grey when shrouding Appennines mists are dispersed by mountain breezes. To-morrow will be just another day at sea, but we hope that Friday afternoon or evening will bring us a sight of the Long White Cloud.

Oh, to come home to your country After long years away, To see the tall shining towers Rise over the rim of the bay.